


Erudition Part 4

by wargoddess



Series: The Templar Canticles [12]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Anal Sex, Cock Rings, Frottage, M/M, Mouth Fucking, Oral Sex, Porn With Plot, Unwilling Kiss
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-24
Updated: 2013-04-24
Packaged: 2017-12-09 08:41:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,976
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/772248
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wargoddess/pseuds/wargoddess
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cullen gets possessive.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Erudition Part 4

**Author's Note:**

> Just the slightest whiff of non-con here -- just a kiss. But I know some people don't even want to see that, so I've warned for it anyway.

     At first, Cullen thought the Knight Lieutenant from Starkhaven was merely after his _job_.

     They stood in Cullen's office at attention, resplendent in Templar armor adorned with red steel pauldrons and tassets.  A nice touch, that; the reddish metal offset the Chantry gambeson-robe nicely, and no doubt served to remind civilians that the Templars were also lay brothers and sisters of Andraste.  Cullen was busy contemplating whether it was worth the trouble to ask Bran for new uniforms when he finally noticed that the man at the forefront of the Starkhaven trio was glaring at him.

     It was an artful glare, as such things went.  The man was taller than his fellows, and broader, and blonder, with surprisingly long hair caught up in a neat queue at the nape of his neck.  (Did they allow hair to such a length in the Starkhaven garrison?  Shameful.)  A handsome-enough fellow, strong-jawed and with a long nose -- which he was currently looking down as he stood before Cullen.  There was nothing specifically hostile in that gaze... except the fact that the gaze was there at all, locked on Cullen's face in open disregard for protocol.  A subordinate officer was supposed to fix his eyes on a spot just over his commander's left shoulder.  Confirmation of Cullen's gut feeling that this man, who seemed vaguely familiar though Cullen could not recall meeting him, did not like him at all.  Interesting.

     "Knight Lieutenant Orwald, is it?  And Knights Corporal Durley and Azelon."  Cullen met their salutes.  "At ease.  I trust your journey from Starkhaven was not too onerous?"

     "No trouble at all, Knight Commander," said Orwald, shifting to resting stance in near-unison with the others.  It spoke well of his command, that they watched him so closely.  "Nothing a swift sword couldn't deal with."

     Azelon, a tall brunette, winced just a bit at that; Cullen liked her better for it, though he hoped she learned to control her expressions better in the future.  Durley, a much older man with a dull look about him that perhaps explained his low rank, didn't seem to notice the faux pas.  But Orwald's smile held just a hint of smugness, and no hint of apology.  If he had been indelicate, it was deliberate.

     Cullen smiled a little, to let them all know that the jibe did not trouble him.  "I am pleased to hear it," he said.  "Like any Templar garrison, the Gallows has some need for swift swords, and of course the skill to wield them well.  But what we need most here, as you no doubt have heard by now, are Templars with a strong understanding of our role as champions of the Maker, and partners with mages in the ongoing battle against evil magic.  So long as you keep this purpose in mind, you will do well here." 

     _Even if you do not like me overmuch_.  But then, Cullen had done plenty of time serving alongside and underneath those he would as soon have shoved off a pier as tolerated by choice; such things did not trouble him.  Competition was healthy, after all, and if Orwald was truly equal to the task, they could only benefit from the addition of another strong Templar to the Gallows' ranks.

     His welcome delivered, Cullen saluted them again, fist over heart.  And did Orwald's gaze linger on Cullen's hand as he did so, noting the non-regulation looseness of that fist?  Perhaps.  "Dismissed," he said -- and when Orwald offered him a small bow as his comrades turned away, Cullen nodded back.  So let it be.

#

     "The new lieutenant is... interesting," Cullen remarked later that evening.

     Carver was sprawled across the couch behind Cullen as was his usual after-hours wont, reading and eating a pear.  He looked up, blinking, and not for the first time was Cullen struck by how handsome Carver was, long and lean and lazy, his half-laced shirt falling open and splattered here and there with drops of pear juice.  He'd managed not to get any of the juice on the book, thankfully, as Cullen could not abide damage to tomes.  Not even _that_ tome, which he suspected was the latest Tethras serial.  The last time Cullen had thumbed through a copy that Carver left lying about, he'd had to put it down before his face exploded from embarrassment.

     "Interesting how?"  Carver's grin turned wolfish.  "Should I be jealous?"

     "You may keep your absurdity," Cullen replied primly, turning back to his desk so Carver would not see him blush.  "The man's not at all to my taste, for one.  For another, I don't think he likes me much.  Not that it matters, so long as he does his duty."

     The silence behind him should have been a warning, but Cullen had already started reading through the next letter on his desk; he didn't realize Carver's mood had turned until he heard the book snap shut with a heavy thud.  "You think he's going to try something?"

     Surprised, Cullen turned to see that Carver had sat up, book set aside and pear forgotten in one hand, his face hardening.  Then Cullen realized where his thoughts had gone, and cursed himself for a fool.

     "No," he said, firmly, because whatever Orwald's faults or ambitions, the man did not deserve to be skewered -- which was what Carver had already begun to consider, if Cullen did not mistake the look on his face.  "Orwald has been a Templar some twelve years -- as long as you, though without so many commendations on his record.  He is no assassin."

     Carver just looked at him with that unnerving _flatness_ to his expression which generally preceded him attempting to kill, successfully killing, or dismembering someone.  With a heavy sigh, Cullen rose and went to him, cupping his chin in one hand.  "Carver."

     "You don't know that's really Orwald," Carver said softly.  "Could be some impostor pretending to be him."

     Cullen blinked, for this was true, and he had not considered it.  But that brought the vague sense of recognition that he'd felt into sudden focus.  "I met him on my trip to Starkhaven, Carver."  It had been brief, all but forgotten amid the horror that followed Cullen's capture by the Inquisition.  But now that Cullen thought about it, he did recall a fleeting introduction to Starkhaven's officers, few as there were left after the destruction of the city's Circle and the advent of the war.  Most of the faces and names had been a blur to him, unimportant, but yes, the three transfers had all been there.

     Carver scowled.  "But if he doesn't like you -- "

     Cullen stroked Carver's face, disliking the way bloodlust made him all sharp edges and flat planes.  "Ah, my sword, please.  Do not be so quick to kill for me."

     "If that's what it takes -- "

     " _If_ , yes.  Not in this case."

     To Cullen's profound relief, Carver exhaled, bowing his head.  "Yeah... yeah.  Right.  Sorry."

     Cullen shook his head, stroking Carver's hair and shoulders, relaxing himself.  "You mustn't attempt to kill _everyone_ I have a quarrel with, Carver; some of my enemies are useful, after all."

     That, thankfully, earned him a laugh before Carver sat back.  "Yeah.  Well, I'll take this fellow out tomorrow, then, put him through his paces in the sparring yard.  I won't _hurt_ him, for the Maker's sake," he added quickly, as Cullen opened his mouth.  "Just gonna suss him out, see what his problem is.  That okay?"

     It didn't sound like the best idea to Cullen, but he doubted Carver could be put off making his own assessment of the man, as that was after all his job.  Cullen put on a pained smile.  "Provided that I still have three new Templars by the end of the day, intact and untraumatized -- "  He put the lightest of emphasis on the word, and watched Carver grin.  "I suppose it can't hurt."

     Though after they retired for the evening to bed, Cullen's last thought before drifting off was:

     _It can't hurt **much**_.

#

     Cullen thought nothing more of the discussion until the next afternoon.  It had been quiet as things ran in the Gallows -- no attacks, no abominations, no out-of-control enchantments, and best of all no meetings.  It was a rare chance for Cullen to put a sizeable dent in the piles of paperwork threatening to swallow his office, so he took to it with a will, signing and stamping and tossing things in the fireplace at a satisfying pace.

     He'd lost himself in the work when the familiar clang and ring of sword-metal caught his attention, and for the thousandth time he sighed and closed his eyes in momentary regret.  Then another clash made him blink, for he _knew_ that heavy, almost leaden concussion, preceded as it usually was by a low, ominous _whoosh_.  As if something ridiculously heavy was being swung faster than prudence or logic would dictate possible...  Ah, Carver.  Of course.

     Pleased, Cullen went to the window of his office -- because by the sound of things, Carver wasn't pulling his blows at all.  That meant Carver's opponent was skilled enough to present a worthy challenge; such matches were always a delight to watch.  And indeed, when Cullen looked down into the practice yard, he caught his breath in admiration as two shining figures -- both helmeted, only prudent with unblunted blades in play -- danced a brutal circle.  He could spot Carver at once, of course; that stance and posture and movement style were all as familiar to Cullen as his own had once been.

     Familiar, and yet...  Cullen frowned and narrowed his eyes.  Something was wrong.

     It was nothing immediately discernible in the match itself.  Carver's opponent, whom Cullen presumed was Knight Lieutenant Orwald, wielded a broadsword as well, and the fact that the match had lasted this long was a clear testament to the man's skill.  They clashed again in a blur of steel and bone-jarring force and this time locked together, blades all but grinding sparks as each strained to overpower the other while still keeping control of his own weapon --

     And then, suddenly, Carver angled his blade sharply to shunt Orwald away, and disengaged.  Cullen could not see why he'd stopped the match, but all at once Carver yanked off his helmet and threw it at the ground, glaring at his opponent in almost palpable fury.

     But why?

     Orwald, for his part, stepped back and lowered his blade as well, then tugged off his helmet.  The look on his face -- Cullen frowned.  He could not see the man well from this angle, but he certainly did not seem angry or upset.  Indeed, he was staring intently at Carver, as if awaiting the answer to some question.  Had there been an exchange of words?

     Carver abruptly turned to leave, not bothering to sheathe his sword.  And then -- Cullen caught his breath as Orwald, who had not sheathed his sword either, lunged at his back.  But before Cullen could cry a useless warning through the window, or Orwald could do some evil, Carver whirled.  Orwald grabbed the gorget of his armor, yanked him off-balance --

     -- and _kissed_ him.

     Carver froze, his eyes going wide.  Cullen froze as well, his heart stopping.  He could not _think_.  He could do nothing but stare as Orwald, perhaps encouraged by Carver's non-response, stepped closer and actually deepened the kiss, his cheeks hollowing and jaw working, eyes drifting shut in blissful relish.

     _Dear Maker, is that his tongue?_ was the only coherent thought Cullen could manage in that eternal moment.  _In **my husband's** mouth?_

     The moment broke as Carver shoved him away, so violently that Orwald actually stumbled back a few steps.  They glared at each other a moment longer, Carver in shock, Orwald in something entirely different.  Then Carver, shaking his head as if in disbelief, took a step back.

     Orwald took a step after him.

     Cullen put a hand on the window glass.

     Carver, still shaking his head, turned and stormed off.  His head was down, his shoulders tight, fury written in every line of his body; he didn't even bother to sheathe his blade.  Then he was around the wall of the practice yard and out of Cullen's sight.

     In his wake, Orwald stayed where he was for a breath or two, looking after him in what Cullen now saw plainly as longing.  A moment later Orwald looked up, and saw Cullen at the window.  They gazed at each other through glass and across distance:  Cullen still stunned, Orwald... thoughtful.

     And then he _smiled_.

     Cullen's shock dissolved; in its wake, a terrible dark calm settled within him.  It was not anger.  Anger was too small a word for what he felt.  Whatever it was, it needed satisfaction.  _Now_.

     He pointed to Orwald through the window, then flicked his hand in a beckoning gesture.  _Get up here_.

     Orwald raised both eyebrows, as if he found the idea amusing.  But he put his fist to his chest in mocking salute, then sheathed his sword and headed toward the Gallows steps at a saunter.  He took his time climbing up as well, but that was fine.  Cullen stayed where he was at the window, snow melting beneath a firestorm.  When the knock came, he had to remember how to speak.  "Come."

     Orwald shut the door as he came in, and stopped before Cullen's desk.  He took an at-ease posture -- an insult without Cullen's permission to do so -- and said, "Permission to speak freely, ser."

     "Denied," said Cullen, very softly.

     "That's a shame," said Orwald, "Because I'm going to speak anyway.  Ser.  I imagine you're angry that I've put my claim on what you think is yours?  Ser."

     "He _is_ mine."

     "Begging your pardon, _ser_ , but he shouldn't be.  If you had an ounce of integrity, you'd divorce him.  _Ser._ "

     "You dare -- "  Cullen's hand twitched toward the hip where his sword had once hung.  Pure reflex, and pointless given that he had never carried a sword in his office even when he'd been able to use it.  Orwald, noticing this, grinned fiercely.

     "You're useless," he said, and Cullen flinched.  " _Helpless_.  Look at you:  furious as you are, you can't even call me out for a duel."

     And Cullen's gorge rose in pure queasy uncertainty. 

     Because -- well, he _had_ thought this himself, hadn't he?  After his recovery from the Inquisition's tortures, as it had become increasingly clear that he would never hold a sword again, he had tried to step down.  Carver hadn't let him.  But what if Carver had been wrong?  What if he _should_ have --

     "So you should step down as Knight Commander," Orwald said, and Cullen flinched again.  Now Orwald came around the desk in blatant threat, no longer maintaining even the pretense of decorum.  Cullen hardly noticed, lost as he was in a welter of sudden, sickening self-doubt.  "For the good of the Gallows, you know you should.  And you should step aside from his life, because _he deserves better than you_."

     Cullen caught his breath, bile souring his mouth.  _Oh, Maker._   It was true.  Carver _did_ deserve better than half a man, half a warrior.  When the assassin had come, it had been Carver who saved Cullen; Cullen had barely managed to defend himself.  What if Carver had needed help?  And -- a thought that made everything inside him cringe:  what if Carver ever grew to resent Cullen for his uselessness?

     "You're a burden."  Orwald loomed over him now, all but breathing into Cullen's face.  It felt as if his words had sunk into Cullen's soul, like acid.  "He can't rely on you, can't trust you.  I heard all about your hands, too weak to hold a sword.  Can you even give his cock a proper pull when he wants it?"

     Cullen closed his eyes.  But that was worse, because now he could hear the triumph in Orwald's voice.

     "A Knight Commander who can't fight for his mages."  Orwald 'tsk'-ed, his voice dripping derision.  "Can't keep his men in line.  Can't even fight for his lover's honor."

     _What?_   Cullen's eyes snapped open.

     "You didn't hear him moan, when I was on him," Orwald continued, grinning into Cullen's face.  "He gave as good as he got, you know.  Must've been a long time since he had a proper kiss, hmm?  And didn't he taste sweet!"  Orwald laughed softly.  "He _wanted_ me.  And I mean to have him.  So you go on home tonight, and you and he can have a little talk -- "

     "Do you honestly believe Carver's honor to be in any way diminished?" Cullen asked, incredulous.  "By _you_?"

     Orwald blinked, falling silent in confusion.  A moment later, he was neither confused nor silent -- for Cullen let loose a Holy Smite that knocked over two vases, cracked the windowpane, and blasted all three paintings of his predecessors off the walls.  It also flung Orwald across the room and into the bookcase, where he landed in a clatter of fallen shelves and heavy tomes.  Dazed, Orwald struggled to get free of the books and gain his feet -- but by this time, Cullen had dropped a knee on his chest to pin him in place, and set his dagger at Orwald's throat.

     "Carver has no need of a simple-minded lover," Cullen said to him, pityingly, as Orwald went stiff in alarm.  "Did you think him the sort to be won by force of arms, or physical prowess?  A man from a family of heroes, himself tempered in the fires of the Blight and the Arishok's war?  Is that _all_ you think of him?"

     Distantly Cullen was aware of shouts and alarum bells in the corridor, and someone frantically banging on the office door -- but these things were academic, he decided.  The corridor guards had probably noticed Cullen's Smite.  He would rise and reassure them in a moment.

     "What --  H-how -- "  Was Orwald actually still dazed?  Cullen had not pulled the Smite at all, as he probably should have done for a fellow Templar; he was willing to admit that had been rude of him.  But then, a wise Templar would have matched the shockwave in order to mitigate its effects.  Clearly, however accomplished Ser Orwald might be with a blade, he had neglected this area of his martial expertise.

     Well.  Not such a terrible loss, then.

     "Cullen?"  Carver.  When had he come in?  Cullen did not lift his eyes from the single drop of bright red blood that had begun to well around the edge of his knife.  "You all right, Cull --  _oh_.  Oh, fuck.  Uh, Knight Commander?  Ser?"

     That made him blink, though he still did not take his gaze from his enemy.  "Knight Captain.  It seems early for your report."

     "Yes, ser.  Uh -- could you not kill the Knight Lieutenant, ser?"

     _Orwald's mouth on Carver's, his cheeks hollowing --_   Cullen had to make an effort to unclench his teeth so that he could speak.  "Do you see some value in this man, Knight Captain?"  If he said yes, Cullen would _gut_ Orwald first, then open his throat.

     Carver made an unpleasant sound.  "No, ser, not a bit.  I'm, uh, only thinking of the Tranquil, ser.  You kill him in here, there's employment records and such.  Can't have recruits handling cleanup when they might see something sensitive, but it's not exactly fair to make the Tranquil do menial work beyond what they've agreed to do."

     There was that.  And yet, Orwald had _dared_.  It could not be _borne_.  "Sometimes unfairness is unavoidable, Knight Captain, as you well know.  I shall make it up to the Tranquil when I can."

     Carver sighed and came over to crouch beside Cullen.  This time he spoke in a low voice, perhaps because the door was open and the corridor beyond crowded with anxious knights and mages attracted by the commotion.  "I know, Cull.  But -- "  And he reached out, putting a hand on Cullen's knife-hand.  He did not grip Cullen's hand or try to pull him away, which he could easily have done.  He just left his hand there, resting over Cullen's, a reminder of his presence.

     "Court-martial him," Carver said softly.  "Or have him in stocks, or bust him down to recruit, or something proper.  You said yourself it wasn't right to kill a man over simple shit, even -- "  And he looked away, as if he could not bring himself to say the words.  Cullen's hand tightened, and Carver blurted, " _No_ , Cullen.  You're too good a man for that."

     "Against your will."  That was the burning in his blood, the ringing in his ears.  That was what made Cullen press harder on the knife, until Orwald made a sound of pain and tried to cringe back, though there was nowhere to go.  "I _saw_ you push him off."

     "Yeah."  Carver's voice hardened.  "He's a greedy arrogant fuck and the next time he so much as smirks at me, I'll beat the living shit out of him.  But you're the Knight Commander.  _I'm_ your sword, yeah?  I'm the one who's supposed to get his hands dirty, so you don't have to.  And I say -- no.  Not this one.  Not now."

     Yes.  Carver was right.

     Taking a deep breath, Cullen pulled the knife from Orwald's throat and got to his feet.  Carver stood with him, and they both glared down at the now-blinking and patently discomfited Orwald.

     "Knight Lieutenant Orwald," Cullen said.  "For insubordination and gross insult to your superior officers, I sentence you to no less than thirty days' confinement and quarter-rations of lyrium."  He paused then, and glanced at Carver.  "Do you object to a whipping, Knight Captain?"

     Carver looked tempted, but finally sighed.  "There was no dereliction involved."

     And the whip was meant to be applied only in such cases, as a deterrent to others.  Cullen sighed and returned his attention to Orwald.  "Very well.  Then at the end of thirty days, should you wish to remain with the Order, you shall be transferred to the Fereldan Circle under Knight Commander Greagoir, at the rank of _junior_ knight.  I shall of course supply a letter of introduction, recommending to Greagoir that you never be promoted above Knight Corporal again." 

     Orwald, who had by now managed to push himself up on one elbow, went pale.  He opened his mouth to protest; Cullen bent low so quickly that Orwald drew back. 

     "Be grateful that I do not strip you of your commission entire," he snarled, enunciating carefully so that Orwald would hear every word.  "If the Order did not desperately need good fighters, I would have the armor and robes publicly _torn off your back_ to mark you as the disgrace you are.  And then I would turn you out of the gates naked, to beg for lyrium in the gutters with the rest of the vermin."

     Orwald's eyes went wide.  After a moment Cullen took a deep breath to compose himself, and straightened again.  Then he continued.  "You may of course _choose_ to resign your commission as a Templar, once your punishment is done.  Find your fortune as you see fit -- but do it somewhere other than Kirkwall.  This is my city, and I will not suffer your presence within its walls for any longer than strictly necessary."

     He did not wait for the man's acknowledgement before stepping over him and going over to the corridor guards, who crowded the open doorway.  "Take this -- "  The word that leapt to Cullen's lips was completely inappropriate.  He chose another, but only because the men looked to him as an example of proper behavior.  " -- this _knight_ , to the dungeons, strip him to shirt and trou, and put him in irons.  Recall what I said of lyrium quarter-rations; enough that he shall feel the craving, but not such deprivation that he loses his reason."  He wanted Orwald to feel every day of his imprisonment, and be clear-headed enough to think about his failings.

     The woman who'd stepped up as the ranking junior saluted, then asked, "Solitary, ser?"

     Again Cullen's reply took great effort.  But he would not demean himself; not for this _fool_.  "No, Ser Ifkin.  We do not use such cruelties, not for mages and not for our own.  House him near those mage-slavers we captured last week; we'll delay their execution long enough that they can keep him company."

     The woman and her fellows all saluted, then came over and hauled Orwald to his feet.  He was actually still wobbly.  Cullen shook his head in contempt as they dragged him away.

     When they were gone, however, Cullen glanced at Carver, who had lingered in the room and plainly still had thoughts to share.  He took in Carver's posture, which was hunched, and the mixture of anger and shame on his face, and went to shut the door.  "Are you all right?"

     Carver would not meet Cullen's eyes, and his fists had clenched at his sides.  "I just -- I couldn't believe it was happening.  It was like... the kind of dream where you know something horrible's happening, yeah?  And you still can't make yourself wake up."  He looked up suddenly.  "Cull, everybody _knows_ I'm with you.  Don't they?  I mean, we're _married_ and, and everything.  But he was _staring_ at me all day, and when we started sparring --  Maker, the things he _said_ \-- "

     Cullen went to him at once, taking him by the shoulders.  "Some men are brigands," he said fiercely.  "Some want only what others have, and never seek to earn for themselves.  That goes as much for love as for honor; you know this."

     "I do know, but -- "  All at once Carver looked up, eyes full of a kind of desperation that Cullen rarely saw in him.  "You know I didn't want that fucker slobbering on me, don't you?  I would never have --  I didn't even _like_ it.  I haven't wanted _anyone_ but you, not since you took up with me.  I don't even go to the Rose anymore, for fuck's sake, every time Adriano sees me in Hightown he just laughs his arse off -- "

     The flood of words shocked Cullen out of anger entirely.  He pressed his forehead against Carver's.  "Carver, Carver --  Maker bless.  Of _course_ I know you didn't want that.  I have no doubts where it comes to you..."

     But.  Cullen faltered silent, realizing this was a lie. 

     He _had_ doubted, hadn't he?  He had stood there listening as Orwald breathed his poison, wondering honestly whether Carver wouldn't be better off with a man who suited his warrior nature, or who could at least watch his back.  Orwald was not that man -- but what if someone should come along who _was_ worthy of Carver?

     He was silent too long.  Carver abruptly pushed away, schooling his face from despairing to dutiful and straightening to attention.  "I... I have duties, ser."

     Cullen caught his breath.  "Carver, wait, I -- "

     But Carver was gone, shoulders bowed and head down, and Cullen did not know how to repair the damage done.

#

     It got worse as the day wore on.  Carver sent a proxy to make his report for that evening; the young woman he sent, a Knight Corporal Cullen had been considering for promotion before Orwald's arrival, saluted and explained that both of the Knights Corporal from Starkhaven were being questioned -- closely -- by the Knight Captain, to confirm their fitness for the Gallows.  It was certainly a legitimate excuse, but Cullen could not help feeling that Carver was avoiding him.

     He lingered late himself that evening, unsure of what to say and troubled by his own uncertainty.  Finally chiding himself for cowardice, he locked away his more sensitive documents, then ordered a recruit to stack the tumbled pile of books and see if the bookcase could be salvaged.  With that, he headed back to the suite, and braced himself to make an apology.

     After racking his armor, however, he found Carver in the bathing-room, still pink-skinned from a soak and clad only in a towel, glaring at himself in a mirror.  A stick of cinnamon, still wet with chew-marks, was in one hand, and a gargling cup in the other.  He glanced at Cullen through the mirror, then away, his expression twisting in disgust.  But not, Cullen realized, disgust for _Cullen_.

     "Can't get that bastard's taste out of my mouth," Carver muttered.  Then he flung the cinnamon stick into the wastebin in a fit of pique, dumped the cup into the sink, and turned to storm into the bedroom, all the while not looking at Cullen.  "Water's still hot, if you want a soak."

     Cullen caught his arm, though he kept his grip loose when Carver stiffened.  "What I want," he said gently, "is to tell you how much I trust you."  When Carver frowned, glancing at him uncertainly, Cullen stepped closer.  "Truly, Carver.  I may doubt myself -- "  And he faltered again here, but pushed on, because Carver was more important, "But never, _ever_ you.  You may believe that, always."

     Carver frowned more.  "Why the Void are you doubting _yourself_?  Cullen, you never stuck tongue or dick in anything that didn't invite you three times first."

     One day, perhaps, Carver would stop being able to make his face go red with a few words.  "Well, yes, but -- "

     "While _I'm_ the one," Carver said, his his voice reverberating with suppressed emotion, "who fucks anything that holds still, or at least I did before you.  Once upon a time I'd have actually _had_ that bastard, can you believe it?  Not for more than a night, I mean, too damned pushy, but if I just needed a good suck-off against the wall, I'd have let him put his money where his mouth was, or try to.  And he _knew_ that."  Carver's laugh was so bitter that it hurt to hear.  "He knew about _me_ , see.  I fucked one of his mates back when I was a recruit, back when those Hunters from Starkhaven came through looking for Grace and her crew.  I don't even remember the bloke's name, but I guess he must have gone back to Starkhaven and bragged about shagging the Champion's little brother or something.  While we were sparring, Orwald kept saying stuff like, 'Have I actually managed to still that tongue of yours?  I know another way to keep it busy when we're done -- '"

     Cullen sucked in a breath.  "I should never have let you talk me out of slitting his throat."

     " _No_."  Carver turned to him, suddenly vehement.  "You can't.  Because you're a good and noble man, you're better than I deserve!  And even if I'm nothing but a fucking _slut_ \-- "

     "Did _he_ say these things to you?"  Cullen grabbed him by the shoulders, aghast -- and understanding, now, just what a snake Orwald had truly been.  "Oh, for the Maker's sake.  He told _me_ that I wasn't man enough for you, because I couldn't fight anymore!"

     " _What?_ "  Carver jerked upright, shocked out of self-pity by affront.  "He had the sodding nerve -- " 

     And then they stared at each other.

     "Well," said Cullen, forcing himself to smile, though it felt more like a grimace.  "It would seem we have both been manipulated."  Orwald had done a fine job of it, too, targeting their individual fears perfectly in his effort to split them apart.  Perhaps he would suggest to Greagoir that he use the man as a spy, if nothing else.

     "I'm gonna break that son of a bitch's _face_ ," Carver snarled.

     "No.  Because you _too_ are a good and noble man."  It seemed an absurd thing to have to say.  Cullen had always known Carver to be the more experienced of them.  But Cullen had been no virgin himself, and what did it matter in any case?  He had certainly enjoyed the benefit of Carver's accumulated skill.  Yet it could not be denied:  Orwald would not have been able to torment him with this if it had not been something Carver already feared, deep down.

     Hoping to jolly Carver out of murderousness, Cullen said, "He is beneath you, my knight.  And in any case, he was wrong.  You are certainly not the only one of us possessed of a lustful nature."  He reached for Carver's clenched fist and lifted it to his mouth, biting at one of the knuckles lightly, and was pleased to see Carver relax a little.  "How can I not be, with you?"

     "With me, yeah."  Carver's smile was sharp-edged and sour.  "You haven't fucked half of Kirkwall and Lothering, though.  You know how to keep it in your trousers."

     "And you don't?"  Cullen stepped closer.  "With me, Carver, you have been nothing but faithful -- and I am well aware that you were... eclectic in your tastes, before.  But that has never mattered to me."

     "You should've been more careful."  Oh, and it was terrible to see Carver's broad shoulders curve inward as he said this.  "Maker knows what kinds of diseases I might've given you, or what kind of drama I might've dragged your name into..."

     "Carver, for Andraste's sake."  Cullen shook his head.  "I'm telling you, I _knew what I was getting into_.  If for no other reason than that it was my job to know, during Meredith's time, if you will recall.  I knew about the, er, pirate, and the bartender at the Hanged Man -- "  Carver groaned.  " -- and Sers Ruvena and Margitte, and that wager you made about which of the three of you could -- "

     "For fuck's sake, Cullen!"  Carver was staring at him, appalled, and belatedly Cullen realized this was perhaps not the best line of argument.  Best to try something new.

     "I knew all of that, and I still wanted you.  _Want_ you.  Very much."  Wryly, he put on his haughtiest tone.  "If you must know, I take a certain pride in having beaten out so much excellent competition.  Were I a lesser man, I might brag of it."

     Carver laughed, weakly.  "Yeah, you'd never."  He leaned his cheek into Cullen's hand and sighed.  "You don't have to worry, anyway, 'cause I don't want anyone else anymore.  It's different with you.  Better.  I don't know why."

     Cullen cupped Carver's face in both hands.  "I know why." 

     But as he leaned in for a kiss, Carver shied a little, again radiating that ugly shame which made Cullen want to go and beat Orwald bloody in his cell.  "Oh, my knight.  Please."  Cullen stroked his hair, his cheeks, trying to soothe him by will alone.  "Would you deny me, for him?"

     Carver winced.  "No.  I just... don't want you to taste him, too."

     Cullen suppressed a wince of his own, and put on a brave face.  "Then I shall share it, so you need no longer suffer his taste alone."

     "That's gross, Cull."  But at last Carver sighed, and this time when Cullen leaned close, he did not pull away.  So Cullen brushed his lips against Carver's in the lightest of caresses; when this went well, he coaxed Carver's lips apart, then his teeth, and finally delved gently into his mouth.  There was a moment of lingering stiffness, and then finally Carver yielded as he so often did when Cullen took his mouth, his neck and jaw relaxing, eyes drifting shut.  Pleased, Cullen flicked at Carver's tongue with his own to tease, but did no more, and ended the kiss there.  When they parted, Carver's eyes searched his anxiously, awaiting the verdict, and Cullen shook his head and smiled.

     "I taste nothing of him."  He brushed the edge of Carver's lips with his thumb.  "Nothing but you.  And you taste only of everything I could ever want."

     It was enough; Carver ducked his head again, but this time he smiled.  "...so sodding romantic."

     "Shall I not be?"  Amused, Cullen bent for another kiss, this one light and teasing.  "My light?  My warrior?  My great flaming sword?"

     "Quit it!"  But Carver was laughing now, and that was enough to satisfy Cullen.  So he kissed Carver again, stinting nothing this time, tasting lips and teeth and stroking tongue against tongue as he had yearned to do all day.  The small wet sounds of it, and the little _mmh_ of pleasure that Carver uttered in response, went straight to Cullen's groin. 

     And just like that the mood changed.  Suddenly Carver was pressing harder against him, cock blatantly jutting against Cullen's hip, and Cullen fumbled a hand down between them to considerately adjust it for him, loving the feel of all that thick hard warmth through the minimal shielding of the bathtowel.

     But then his hand slipped and he lost Carver for a moment, and froze as _can you even give his cock a proper pull_ flashed through his mind.

     "Cull?"  Carver spoke half into Cullen's mouth.  Cullen did not pull away, but his ardor cooled somewhat, and of course Carver noticed.  "What's up?"

     Cullen shook his head.  "Just thinking about something Orwald said."  Carver pulled back to groan.  "No.  I know better than to credit it." 

     And yet, as he leaned against Carver again and stroked him through the towel -- carefully now, so that he would not slip again -- it was hard to stop thinking of the cruel words, and the truth that had made them strike home.

     _You're useless_.

     It was a lie, and Cullen knew it.  He was by no means helpless, even in battle -- and had certainly proven that to Orwald.  But that was the problem, wasn't it?  Cullen had had to _prove_ it.  Until then, Orwald had honestly thought he could just walk into the Gallows and _take_ what was Cullen's.  It was offensive even to think this way; if anything, Carver had claimed Cullen, and the bond between them was nothing so simplistic or boorish as _ownership_. 

     But he could not stop thinking of Carver's anguished words:  _Everybody knows I'm with you.  Don't they?_

     Cullen's hand stilled, though Carver had begun to purr with the attention.

     _Don't they?_

     "You are mine," Cullen said, lifting his head from Carver's shoulder.

     "Hmm?"

     Cullen straightened and stepped back so that he could look at Carver fully.  Such a beautiful man.  And such nobility, such temper, such tenderness...  Orwald had risked his own career over Carver, yet Cullen was not at all surprised that he had done so.  For was Carver not a magnificent prize?  Cullen laid a palm on Carver's belly and slid it up, slowly, over the valleys of his abdomen and toward the planes of his pectorals. He might have done the same, in Orwald's position.  If he had thought Carver's lover unworthy of him?  Yes.  He _would_ have done the same.  Maker help him.

     "It is something I said to Orwald," Cullen said softly, "when he challenged me.  He had said that I should give you up, because I could not keep you safe."

     Those marvelous abdominals tightened; Cullen felt Carver's heart speed up.  " _Fucker._ "

     "Yes."  He lifted his eyes, then, to Carver's, marveling again at the trust in them.  The _outrage_ , that anyone should doubt Cullen's claim.  Cullen kept him close with one hand on the small of his back, but let the other roam up over his throat, his chin.  At Carver's lips, he lingered, then pushed gently with one finger.  Immediately Carver opened his mouth, curled his tongue round the finger as Cullen slid it in and drew it out again.  And all the while Carver watched Cullen, attentive, waiting.  Wanting.

     _I could have whatever I asked of him.  He would give me anything._

     Pride was a sin.  But it was also a human thing, part of any man's nature, unavoidable.  To truly rid oneself of sin, it was necessary to master it.

     Cullen slid a second finger into Carver's mouth, and Carver's eyelids drifted half shut.  He suckled gently at Cullen's fingers, each pull like a chain dragging at his cock.  _Oh, yes._   Cullen could not quite help himself when he leaned close to whisper, " _Are_ you mine, Carver?" 

     He didn't wait for the answer, drawing his fingers out of Carver's mouth -- Carver made a little sound of protest -- and cupping his head.  Then he let go of Carver's back, and with that hand began unlacing his trousers.  Carver's eyes widened, then fixed on Cullen's working hand with an unnerving intensity.  When Cullen's cock came free, Carver let out a little sigh.  But Carver did not move.  Waiting.

     _Oh, Maker and His bride, yes._

     "Let me take that taste from your mouth," Cullen breathed, and pressed Carver's head down.

     At once Carver went to his knees, yanking the towel from his hips and tossing it on the floor as a cushion.  He went straight for Cullen, mouth open, but Cullen caught him by the hair -- gently, for he lacked the strength for a hard grip, and harshness was not what he wanted now, anyhow.  Just... control.

     "Only the tip, for now," he commanded.

     Carver looked up at him, a flash of blue that made Cullen catch his breath in wonder.  But then Carver obeyed.  His hands came up, one of them tugging at Cullen's trousers to get them down further, the other closing 'round the base of Cullen's shaft.  Not stroking, not yet.  Just holding, as meanwhile, without opening his lips, he gave Cullen the most delicate of kisses.  Cullen was hard enough that this thrummed along his nerves like a struck bell.

     And then Carver opened his mouth, and began to lick.

     There was no sound in the chamber, save the occasional plink of condensation into the steaming bathtub water.  Cullen's breaths soon filled the intervening silence -- interrupted once when he feverishly yanked off his shirt and threw it to the floor so he could see better.  He usually did not watch while Carver devoured him, because the sight alone was a torment.  That beautiful, soft mouth.  But this deserved his full attention.

     "Now," Cullen said, between heavy breaths.  "More.  You may use both hands, for now."  Carver smiled a little with his lips against the underside of Cullen's shaft; Cullen felt every minute twitch of his lips. 

     Then Carver opened his mouth and slid down, down, gradually encompassing the whole length of Cullen's cock.  Down -- oh, _Maker_ , Cullen loved the way Carver could take so much of him like it was nothing.  Carver pulled free quickly to catch his breath, but then wrapped his hand around Cullen's shaft, and curled the other 'round his balls.

     Then he went at Cullen like a fifty-silver whore.  It was something he'd said once, and Cullen had laughed -- but later he'd confessed to Cullen that he'd _learned_ it from a fifty-silver whore, and the man had been so impressed with his eventual skill that he'd suggested Carver consider a lucrative side-career to Templaring.  There was a delicious sort of methodical brutality to the way that Carver sucked him at times like this -- slow and slurping, deep and greedy, as if Cullen were made of the sweetest treat.  And with his fingers massaging Cullen's balls, he could keep Cullen on the brink for hours if he chose; he'd done it to Cullen before, when he was in the mood.  But right now, Cullen had a sharper sort of pleasure in mind.

     He glanced down at Carver's rock-hard, neglected cock and yearned, but made himself focus on the matter at hand.

     "No hands," Cullen gasped, and shifted his position to straddle Carver's body, bracing one hand against the nearby wall.  With his other hand, he cupped the back of Carver's head.  "Nnh, no hands at all, my love, my knight, _mine_.  Open for me -- yes.  Oh, yes.  Just so."

     He stroked Carver's hair, giving him a moment to adjust -- but Carver was already pulling at him, making hungry sounds, and Cullen could restrain himself no longer.  It was not the gentlemanly thing to do, but he did not care.  He held Carver's head still and fucked his mouth, his hips moving faster and harder, his breath coming louder with every moment, because Carver was his, _his_ , to do with as he pleased.  So he rode faster, his rhythm growing ragged, until the sounds of wet slapping and Carver's soft moans filled the room.  When the pull started deep in Cullen's groin he meant to slide free, having a half-thought notion of spending on Carver's face or in his hair.  But it felt too good, _too good_ to be in his mouth, and Cullen's hips stuttered and his thoughts went white and he plunged as deep as he could and shouted mindlessly as he came down Carver's throat.

     Then he was on the floor with Carver, shaking and gasping for air and insensible, having fallen to his knees; only Carver's hard arms held him up at all.

     "Mine," Cullen ranted, trembling.  His mouth was half-muffled in Carver's shoulder.  "Mine."

     Carver laughed weakly, breathless too.  "Ohhh, yeah.  _All_ yours.  Maker, Cullen."

#

     There was more, of course.  The night was young, and the next day was a rest day, and Cullen had further demands when Carver carried him to bed.  There were _things_ in the nightstand, bought months before and never used, for Cullen had been shy of them.  Now, however, he took up the simple little loop of softened leather with its snap-catch, and wrapped this around Carver, who hung heavy and tight and unrelieved in his hands.  Then they rutted together, Cullen ignoring Carver's rising cries of frustration until Carver finally begged to be set free.  

     "Not yet," Cullen told him, breathing hard in his ear.  He had bitten Carver somewhere in this, high on the curve of his neck where it was likely to show over his armor.  As Carver whimpered, he licked the purpling mark of it now.  "Are you mine?"

     "Nnf... fuck... you _know_ I am, Cullen!"

     He needed to hear the words.  "You are mine.  _Say_ it."

     "I'm yours, oh fuck, yes, yes, yours, please -- "

     "Then I would have you in me, my knight.  Prove your strength to me."

     So Carver threw his legs up and held them apart and worked frantically at him, hips churning, expression transported, until Cullen was sobbing brokenly amid the pillows and the second orgasm felt something like dying.  Then he undid the catch on the leather loop, and an instant later Carver was screaming, writhing, pounding, and when it was done he fell onto Cullen in a deadweight, dazed and twitching.

     Yes.

     Cullen let Carver sleep while he went into the bathroom and washed with the now-tepid water.  Afterward he brought a clean basin of it back and used the cloth to wipe all the sweat and oil and saliva off Carver.  There was a red mark 'round Carver's cock where the leather loop had been, but he seemed to have taken no harm from it, and didn't twitch when Cullen cleaned him there.  And because doing this had inflamed him again, he retreated to the big chair beside the bed and stroked himself, gazing at the wonder that lay in his bed and thinking that he would do anything, _anything_ , to keep him.  Then he bit his fingers to keep silent and spilled into his hand, with great heaving shudders. 

     When he recovered, he saw that Carver had woken and was watching him, eyes half-lidded.  He'd stretched out a hand across the covers, fingers open: an offering.

     Cullen went to him at once, taking that hand and sealing the grip with what strength he possessed and his own seed for extra measure.  As he gazed down into Carver's face, Carver smiled lazily.  " _You_ mine?"

     "Always," Cullen whispered, and wrapped himself around Carver for the rest of the night.

#

     Two days later Cullen returned to work, exhausted.  It had been some time since he and Carver had spent a whole day in bed, and he was beginning to think they should not do it again soon.  His muscles were sore as if he'd had a hard workout; his lower back protested every time he bent more than halfway down; Carver had bruised his hips gripping them; and there was a odd, lingering dullness in his groin that told him perhaps he was getting too old for repeated sport.  When he went to his meeting with Bran that afternoon, Bran glowered at him a moment, then drawled that perhaps people who chose to act like newlyweds should actually _be_ newlyweds, so that they would not look like death warmed over afterward.

     On the way home, however, Cullen stopped at his bank and had a letter of credit written up.  That evening he penned a request to a craftsman he'd heard of in Amaranthine, listing specific requirements for a commission and politely asking that it take no more than six months.

     To Cullen's great surprise, however, a package arrived for him some four weeks later, in an elaborate tooled-leather box, its contents wrapped in satin.  He was shocked beyond measure when he opened it and saw the finished products, accompanied by a note in flourishing script from the craftsman which thanked him for the opportunity to work on "a unique challenge".  The receipt attached -- as his letter of credit had already been redeemed by the Amaranthine bank -- showed that his savings were now considerably depleted as a result, but that was a price Cullen found himself happy to pay.

     By chance on the same day, Orwald's sentence came full up, so both Cullen and Carver stood on hand to watch his release.  Orwald was led from his cell and given a burlap parcel containing his armor, with his shield and scabbarded sword tied on top.  Four of Cullen's Hunters stood on hand, carrying travel-satchels as they were to disembark that very night by ship, escorting Orwald to his new post in Ferelden.

     Orwald was paler, thinner, and sober as he turned to them, and Cullen had a moment to consider what he might say if the man sincerely apologized.  But Orwald's eyes flicked from Cullen to Carver, where they lingered for a moment in genuine desire -- despite Carver's magnificently cold-eyed stare in reply.  Then he faced Cullen again, his mouth pulled to one side in something less than a smile.  "Maybe you should thank me, Knight Commander.  You look like the cat that got all the cream."

     Cullen shook his head, sighing in resignation.  "Nothing so crude, Knight Lieut -- pardon me.  _Ser_ Orwald."  Orwald's smirk faded, and Cullen allowed himself a small smile.  "I am merely the man who holds his trust."

     He glanced at Carver, who left off glaring at Orwald and softened as he noticed Cullen's look.  Carver put his fist to his heart and bowed.  Yet there was an intimacy to the salute that anyone could see, and Cullen closed his eyes for a moment, savoring it, before nodding in unnecessary approval. 

     When he focused on Orwald again, still aglow with Carver's regard, he added, "That is more than you shall ever have." 

     Orwald's face tightened, and Cullen felt a moment's pity for him, though it passed quickly.  Then he pivoted and walked out, with all his officers saluting and Carver at his side.

     "That's it for the evening report, ser," Carver said as they walked.

     "Hm?  Oh, yes.  Dismissed, then."  And because it seemed as good a time as any, Cullen stopped in the middle of the courtyard, reaching for his belt pouch.  "I have something for you.  For us, really."

     Carver inhaled, his eyes widening, as Cullen unwrapped the satin to reveal two gauntlet-cuffs in red steel, the rounded edges of each inset with a delicate silvery filigree of flames.  Silverite; Cullen had not asked for it in the design, but he had to admit that it was a marvelous touch.  "Maker, Cullen, that's gorgeous."

     Pleased by his reaction, Cullen took Carver's hand and clapped the cuff 'round his gauntlet, affixing and tightening it by the clever weave of chain underneath so that it rested snugly against the metal and leather.  It was even easy for his clumsy fingers to manage; the craftsman had done a fine job.  "There.  When you want to wear it out of uniform, just tighten it more; it will be looser about your wrist, but should not slide off.  Mine fits well."

     When Carver said nothing, Cullen looked up in sudden concern.  But Carver was throwing him a wry look.  "I thought we weren't bothering with rings."

     "This isn't a ring," Cullen said, blinking in confusion.  "Rings would chafe, after all, under our gloves."

     "And no one would _see_ a ring.  Right?"  Carver was grinning now, in a way that made Cullen fight not to blush.  "I mean, it's not like you put this thing on me _in the middle of the sodding courtyard_ so everyone would see you do it, or anything.  Right?"

     Losing the battle, Cullen resorted to dignity as his flaming face betrayed him.  "I have no idea what you mean."

     Carver burst out laughing, grabbing the bundle containing the remaining cuff from Cullen's hands.  "Then you won't mind if I put this on you later, _in private_."  His grin turned lascivious.  "In the meantime, since you want everybody to know what's whose, and all..."

     Even with that warning, Cullen was startled when Carver cupped a hand around the back of his head and dragged him into a bruising, lingering kiss.  When Carver finally released him, Cullen stared at him in shock; Carver had never, ever done such a thing in public before.  But then Carver licked his lips and breathed, " _Mine_."

     Then he sauntered off, whistling.  Left gaping in his wake, Cullen looked around, noticing how every soul in the courtyard suddenly found his or her shoes phenomenally interesting, or felt the instant need to strike up conversation with nearby strangers.

     "Bloody Void," he muttered, then beat a hasty retreat through the inner courtyard gate.

#

     But later that night, Carver put the cuff on Cullen's arm with gentle reverence and pulled him close, whispering of gratitude and love in his ear.  And Cullen did not mind so much anymore that everyone in Kirkwall knew _exactly_ how lucky a man he was.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not entirely happy with this one. It feels almost sappy, and this is a whole lot of text and plot for what I really just wanted to be a "Cullen finally plays with the cock ring" scene. But once again my !@#$%@ muse decided to be obnoxious.
> 
> Welp. So much for this series being over. -_-


End file.
